


sleep is not my friend

by MaryPSue



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Canon-typical alcohol abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, everything I've written for this canon is just so cheerful, so much angst and dysfunction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 03:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10756086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryPSue/pseuds/MaryPSue
Summary: They're better off without him. Beth's been telling herself that since the first time her father abandoned her family.They're better off without him.





	sleep is not my friend

**Author's Note:**

> Written before The Rickshank Redemption aired, so some details no longer jibe with canon. I still like it though.
> 
> Recommended listening: 'Shampain' by Marina and the Diamonds, 'Cut The Body Loose' by Astronautalis.

Jerry makes sure to slam the study door behind him, like the self-absorbed child he is, doing his best to share his bad mood with the rest of the house.

After all the yelling, the silence in the kitchen seems to ring.

Beth puts up with it until she feels like she can uncurl her fingers from where they’re clenched around the lip of the counter. They come apart slow and stiff, like her joints have rusted into place.

The cabinet where they keep the wineglasses is right next to her dad’s - to the cabinet that’s been sealed off with a forcefield. It’s hard not to look at - there’s nothing there, exactly, but the air shimmers and wavers like heat rising off pavement. The movement draws the eye. But somehow Beth manages, fishing a clean wineglass from the cabinet with her eyes locked forward.

 _“You’re the smartest person I know, how can you be so_ stupid  _when it comes to him?”_

There’s a bottle of wine at the back of the fridge, just where Beth left it. She bumps up against the forcefield that seals off the second crisper drawer as she reaches for it, gets a sudden shock for her trouble. She pulls back, eyeing the stupid thing warily. She’d kind of assumed it was the high-tech, intergalactic equivalent of crime scene tape. If it’s going to shock anybody who touches it, she’s not sure she wants it somewhere where her whole family’s likely to bump into it every time they reach for a soda.

The bottle of wine shakes as she tips it over her glass, splashing cheap red out over the sides and all over the counter.

 _“This could be good for us - okay, all right, for_ you _! A fresh start, without - old baggage -”_

The stem of the glass threatens to snap in Beth’s hand. She takes a deep breath, and downs half the glass without coming up for air.

She’d been hoping, vaguely, that it’d take her edge off. She’s apparently forgotten that she’s nothing but edges. How had Jerry oh so eloquently put it? “Brain of a robot and heart of an insect”?

Clutching her glass of wine like a security blanket, alone in the silence of the empty kitchen, Beth wishes that were true.

…

The door to the garage shimmers, slightly, behind its forcefield seal. Jerry had complained when they’d put it in. The police - the  _Federation_  police, something Beth hadn’t even known existed a week ago - had stripped the place to its bare walls, couldn’t he at least use it to park his car?

At the time, Beth had told him to shut up. Now, she almost wishes she’d taken his side.

_“You know he was using you, right? That he was just manipulating you so he could use this place as a hideout? You don’t actually still believe he cared about being part of your life?”_

It’s harder not to look at this door than it was to avoid the cabinet.

 _“Your father_  stranded  _us on an_  alien planet,  _Beth! If the cops hadn’t caught up with him we’d still be there! I’m sorry, I know you’re still trying to cling to your good impression of Rick, but we’ve had to live with the man for the last year, and I’m pretty sure we’d know by now if he was the sort of guy who’d give himself up for anyone else - especially us!”_

Beth leans against the wall, her legs suddenly too uncertain to support her. The only reason she doesn’t spill her drink is because it’s a mouthful away from empty. She’s lost track of how many times she’s refilled it already. 

She catches herself staring at the garage door, blankly watching the air wavering in front of it. If there’d been anything in there, anything left for anyone to find, it’s in the hands of the Federation now. All that’s left is bare concrete and uninsulated walls. 

The music from upstairs, a muffled pounding, suddenly drops off in volume, and Beth realises dully that whichever of the kids had turned it up must have noticed the yelling had stopped. She catches herself thinking that the music must be coming from Summer’s room, because Morty’s probably off on some kind of high-concept sci-fi adventure with -

Beth wonders if she’d remembered to pick up more wine before they’d left for the wedding, or if the bottle she’s just polished off is all that was left in the house.

The Federation police…person?…who’d escorted them off the tiny world had been more right than they’d known. Everything is right back to the way it was.

Beth peers into the depths of her wineglass, and drains the last mouthful.

…

When Jerry comes looking for the ice cream, he doesn’t notice Beth sitting with her back against the counter until she speaks.

“We’re outta wine,” she says, and he starts, cracking his head against the underside of the fridge shelf above him.

“Ow! Shit!” Jerry attempts a glare in Beth’s direction, manages peevish annoyance. 

“I think there’s still some travel bottles of vodka in the medicine cabinet,” Beth says, to her feet. “Jusss - don’ grab the ones that glow purple.”

Jerry straightens up, slamming the fridge door. Beth can feel him looking down, feel his judgemental stare burning through the top of her head, but she doesn’t look up. Partly because she thinks her head might float away if she tries, but mostly because she’s not going to give him the satisfaction.

“I think you’re forgetting,” he says, short. “It’s over. No more mysterious purple liquids in the medicine cabinet. No more glowing rocks in the kitchen trash. No more  _alien bacterial cultures_  in the Cherry Garcia -”

“I know what you used to say about me,” Beth interrupts. The sentence stumbles off her tongue, but it still bursts out into the quiet kitchen ringingly clear. 

She doesn’t wait for Jerry to bluster through his denial, tipping her empty wineglass back and forth in both hands. “In high school. You an’ all the other guys. Good old 'Daddy Issues’ Sanchez, right? You used to like how fucked up I was. You all just  _loooooooved_  how easy it made me.”

Beth can hear the sharp breath her husband sucks in through his nose, the exasperated sigh, but she still doesn’t look up. The light off the glass in her hands is dulled by the smudgy film of oil her fingers have left on it. 

Jerry sounds more like he’s talking to a misbehaving dog than another person. “If we have to talk about this, can we do it when both of us are sober?”

“I’m  _sor-ry_  you got stuck with me and all my  _old baggage_ ,” Beth sing-songs. There’s a vicious, quiet satisfaction in looking up to see her husband’s face contracting in barely-suppressed anger. “But heyyyyy. This  _easy_  enough for you?”

For a second, Beth thinks Jerry’s going to start yelling again. But then he shuts his eyes and shakes his head. “I’m not letting you drag me into this. Drink some water.”

He starts to shuffle out of the kitchen, and Beth’s sure she’s meant to hear the muttered, “You’re almost as bad as your dad.”

Trying to jump to her feet was the wrong thing to do. Beth ends up hanging off of the counter by one arm, sagging on her knees, shouting at her spineless, gutless wimp of an idiot husband’s back, “You’re just lucky I’m so fucking  _stupid_  when it comes to  _you_!”

Jerry doesn’t turn around, just shuffles on around the doorframe and out of sight. Beth tries to lever herself to her feet, and then gives up, collapsing back down to her comfortable spot on the floor. One of the cabinet handles is digging into her back just below her neck, but she’s numb enough to ignore it.

She could go out and get more wine. Hell, she could go out and get more wine, and then just keep going. Devin’d be more than glad to see her. Beth’s no fool, she’s been playing this game since she was old enough to wear a bra. She’d have to be blind and deaf not to know he’s interested in her. 

She wonders if, when he found out, Jerry’d actually have the guts to blow his own brains out like he’d promised.

Beth tips her head back, stares up at the pot lights set into the ceiling. Hell, maybe she could break into the garage. There’s always a chance that the Federation cops who scoured the place didn’t find the basement, that there’s something down there that could get her right out of orbit. She could just vanish, forever, into the infinite coldness of space. It probably wouldn’t be that hard. She can take care of herself. She’s _smart_.

Just like -

Beth heaves a huge breath that absolutely doesn’t resemble a sob, and tries again to push herself to her feet. She steadies herself against the counter, sticks her empty wineglass under the faucet and wrenches the tap on. 

She doesn’t realise the glass is full until it’s overflowing.

…

Morning dawns grey.

Beth takes a shower, brushes the taste of small dead rodent out of her mouth, pulls on clean clothes and brushes out her hair and slaps on tinted moisturiser, lipstick, mascara. She has to lean in close to the mirror to drag the brush over her eyelashes without stabbing herself in the eye, has to look herself right in the face. Somehow she manages not to make eye contact once.

When she’s finished, she looks fresh. Human again. Like any other morning. Maybe her eyes are a little red, but not enough so that anyone would notice.

She’s got toast in the toaster and a pan full of eggs sizzling on the stove when Jerry wanders in, with that expression that he gets when the commercial with the sad homeless African orphan puppies comes on TV. "Heyyyyy, there,” he starts, voice cautious under the syrup, and Beth bites down on her tongue. “Wow, that sure smells delicious. Did you…actually get any sleep last night, or have you been down here this whole time?”

Beth turns away, checks the eggs. They’ll only need a minute or so more. “Would you set the table?”

Jerry, predictably, doesn’t move. “So that’s how it’s going to be, huh? We’re just going to pretend like last night didn’t happen?”

“As far as I’m concerned, it didn’t,” Beth says, reaching up to the cabinet to grab a plate to flip the eggs onto. 

She doesn’t have to turn and look at her husband to know the way he’s looking at her. It’s better than staring like she’s one of the homeless puppies. “Really? You don’t think you - I don’t know, owe anybody an apology?”

“I’m sorry,” Beth says, flatly, and flips the eggs out of the pan onto the plate. Some of her dad’s robots have had more emotion in their voices. “Are you going to set the table?”

Jerry sighs. It’s not just a sigh, it’s self-pity made sound. Beth turns to check on the toast, but she can feel her husband’s eyes boring into her back as he clatters around in the cabinets. 

“I don’t want to start another fight,” he says, finally, and for once Beth believes him. “I just - are you all right?”

“No, Jerry,” Beth says, as the toast pops up. She turns back to the cabinet for a second plate, starts to pile toast onto it. “Tell the kids breakfast is ready, would you?”

Jerry doesn’t move, and even with her back turned, Beth knows she’s getting the homeless-puppy look again. She sucks in a breath, squares her shoulders, and turns around to hand him the plate of toast.

“It’s not going to happen again,” she says, meeting his eyes, and means it. “Let’s just go back to acting like everything is fine like everybody else, okay? I have to get to work.”

For just a moment, the pity bleeds out of Jerry’s expression, and Beth remembers why they’re still married.

“For what it’s worth, I  _am_  sorry about your dad,” he says, halting. 

Beth shrugs.

“We’re all better off without him,” she says, the familiar words taking shape in her mouth without her having to think about it.

She turns around and feeds more bread into the toaster before Jerry can see her face.


End file.
